Known Unknowns
by SierraSilver
Summary: "Don't tamper with your tracking device. Don't do anything that could cause us trouble. And keep in mind that the only real way off this island is with us." (AU diverging during My Blue Heaven (6x09).)
1. Part I

A/N: I wrote this to distract myself from something much longer I've been working on (which I'm not certain I'm going to get done). This particular story is a 6x09 AU. I know it isn't especially realistic for the FBI to send Lisbon to the island, but I've always wondered how things would've gone if they had sent her instead of Fischer.

I've written all of this and will post it in three installments over the next week or so, barring unforeseen circumstances. Standard disclaimer applies.

* * *

><p>She's on page 143 of <em>Law Enforcement and the Supreme Court <em>when she hears them arrive—three pairs of footsteps crossing the lobby outside, heading towards the front desk and the entrance to her office beside it. She folds the corner of a page and shuts the book, switching it out for a stack of finished paperwork.

Muffled conversation and a voice she recognizes. The door to her office creaks open several inches, and she sees the face of the new intern—half-confused, half-excited.

"Chief Lisbon?" he starts. "The um, FBI is here to see you?"

"Yeah, you can let them in."

He disappears. Seven seconds later the door swings open completely and Abbott walks in, trailed by two suits with holstered weapons.

"What's this about?" she asks, though she knows what it's about (and is sure they know she knows).

Abbott sits in the chair in front of her desk without invitation, setting a silver briefcase on the floor. The other two men stand as sentries by the door, blank-faced and nearly motionless. She thinks about throwing a paper clip at one of them to catch their attention, but decides against it.

"Have you had any contact with Patrick Jane since we last spoke?" Abbott asks, though it barely sounds like a question.

"No, I haven't." (Give short answers and use contractions, she remembers Jane telling her once.)

"I see."

Abbott picks up the briefcase and sets it on her desk, sending a small glass figurine skittering across the surface. The lid blocks her view of the interior, but he removes a white envelope before shutting the case again. She spots her name and address in familiar script, and squeezes her hands into fists so she won't try to grab it from him.

"This is a letter written to you by Patrick Jane," Abbott says. "This is one of multiple letters you've received from him."

"If you intercepted that one, then I never got it," she corrects. (She's not sure how Jane manages to keep making clever comments when everything is going to hell. This is the first time they've come in with proof and it's all she can do to keep from hyperventilating.)

"We traced this letter through intermediaries to an island off the coast of Venezuela," Abbott continues. "We have every reason to believe that this is Patrick Jane's location."

Venezuela—it's what she expected, though her own search hit a dead end a year and a half ago. Somehow knowing where he is makes him feel farther away instead of closer.

"Why are you telling me?" she asks.

"Because you're going to be flying there this evening."

"_What?_" Her voice cracks. "Why?"

"You're going to persuade him to return to the United States to work for the FBI."

It takes her about ten seconds to process the sentence (and she's still having trouble with previous one). She thinks for a moment that he's joking, but she's not sure he's capable of that—not about this, at least. She entertains the idea that she's asleep, though it's been an otherwise uneventful day and not at all like her usual dreams (since no one's been killed yet).

She starts at the beginning. "You want him to _work_ for you?"

"Patrick Jane has valuable skills that are of interest to us," Abbott says without inflection. "We would require him to work for us for a period of five years, after which we'd consider dropping the charges against him."

She'd laugh if she didn't feel so sick. "I don't know what you're imagining, but it's not going to be different from when he worked at the CBI. If anything, it'll be a lot worse."

"The FBI is not a corrupt state agency. If he creates trouble of any kind, he'll be tried and sentenced for first degree murder, among other things."

She can't take her eyes off that letter. "He's never going to agree to it."

"Which is exactly why you'll be coming with us to Venezuela," Abbott tells her. "You will be explaining this offer to him and convincing him to take it."

She almost wants to laugh again. "How the hell am I supposed to convince him?"

"However you typically convince him to do things."

She scowls. "We're not—"

"We will have him sign a contract with us, and then we will bring him to Texas and return you here to Washington," Abbott interrupts. "You can be back here a few days from now, if you're concerned about your work. Although I doubt there would be anything to miss if you were gone for months."

"I'm not doing this." She manages to keep her voice steady. "I'm not going to Venezuela. You can try to get him to work for you if you want, but he's not going to agree to it. And I'm not going to help you."

"Fair enough." Abbott opens the briefcase and removes a thin stack of papers before shutting it again. "These are the charges that will be filed against you for obstruction of justice as well as communication with a known fugitive. There are also several charges that we elected not to file following the disbandment of the California Bureau of Investigation, but which we would be happy to file now."

"You're threatening me?"

"If you persist in refusing to help us, we will also file this charge." Abbott pulls out a paper from the stack and holds it up. "Your niece, Annabeth Lisbon, was recently apprehended breaking into a residence, allegedly under direction from her father, Tommy Lisbon. We took over the case from the local police department and kept the charges on hold while we continued to investigate your involvement with the fugitive Patrick Jane."

"You can't." She needs to breathe, she needs to stay calm, she needs to keep herself from punching Abbott and grabbing that letter and running until she's miles away. "You can't do this."

"We are doing this." He passes her another sheet of paper. "This is the contract you will sign agreeing to travel to Venezuela with the FBI to speak with Patrick Jane. You will carry a tracking device with you at all times. If you make any attempt to leave the island or violate this contract, we will file all of the previously discussed charges. Keep in mind that we are capable of making things difficult for your brothers as well."

She's going to be sick. "He's never going to agree to this. It doesn't matter if you send me there. He's never going to agree to this."

"I would suggest that you sign the contract."

She swallows and looks down at the paper in front of her—small type and several paragraphs of legal-speak, the other signatures already in place. She reads the text three times but doesn't find any noticeable loopholes. She nearly tears the paper while signing her name.

"Agent Bradley will escort you to your house so that you can collect your passport and other things," Abbott says when she slides the contract back toward him. "He will also drive you to the airport in Seattle. There will be a flight to Caracas leaving at eight PM this evening."

She nods mutely. Abbott gathers the papers and letter and places them back inside the briefcase before standing.

"You might've made a good agent," he tells her. "It's unfortunate you let things turn out this way."

* * *

><p>She gets put in an aisle seat near the back of the plane to Caracas, next to a little boy glued to a handheld video game and a man she assumes is the boy's father. She can't see Abbott from her seat (he's somewhere near the front), but Agent Bradley is a couple rows ahead of her. About an hour into the flight she's flipping through Skymall when she realizes he's standing in the aisle beside her.<p>

"I've been asked to give this to you."

It's the letter. Her fingers almost shake as she takes it, though she tries to keep her face as blank as his.

"Thanks."

He gives her a slight nod and walks back to his seat.

* * *

><p>She spends fifteen minutes turning the letter over and over in her hands before realizing she's not going to be able to open it. Not here, and not when she's about to see Jane in person. She has no real desire to start crying in the middle of an airplane full of strangers (which she's sure she'll do if she opens it), and when she sees him tomorrow she doesn't want his words echoing in her head. She has to focus. She has to fulfill this goddamn contract, and she won't be able to do it if she's walking around in an emotional daze.<p>

She hides the letter in her carry-on bag. She'll open it when she's back in Canon River—when all of this is over.


	2. Part II

A/N: Guess who got to talk about The Mentalist in an essay for a college class? I did!

Thank you for reviews. Standard disclaimer applies.

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><p>By some miracle she gets three hours of sleep on the flight to Caracas, only waking when a flight attendant taps her on the shoulder and tells her they're about to land. Agent Bradley waits with her at the baggage carousel as though she's going to try to escape. She rides in the backseat of a black van to a smaller private airport, the tinted windows keeping most of the light from the sunrise out her eyes. She's relieved not to be handcuffed.<p>

She spends most of the flight in the smaller FBI plane staring out the window, though the view is mostly empty ocean. No one speaks. She's sure that if Jane were in this situation he'd hum something annoying, or try start a fight between Agent Bradley and the other suit, or hypnotize the pilot into flying them somewhere else entirely. She stays quiet. It's not worth her freedom or Annabeth's trying to cause a disturbance.

* * *

><p>She sits in a chair in the lobby of the hotel while Abbott and the other two FBI agents talk to the concierge. They've given her the tracking device, and she fiddles with it while she waits, examining the surface as though she's going to be able to figure out the mechanics. In another life it might've been nice to work for the FBI, she thinks—though without any Blake Association members wreaking havoc on her division.<p>

"Miss Lisbon." It's Agent Bradley.

"Yeah?" She wonders if it would kill him to call her 'Chief Lisbon.'

He hands her a key. "You'll be staying in room 128. We'll expect you to be reachable by phone at all times, and to contact us as soon as Patrick Jane has agreed to accept the FBI's offer. Don't tamper with your tracking device. Don't do anything that could cause us trouble. And keep in mind that the only real way off this island is with us."

"How am I supposed to find him?" she asks.

"I don't know," the agent says. "That's up to you."

* * *

><p>The hotel room is small and nondescript, and she sets her suitcase on the bed so that she won't be tempted to lie down and try to get a few more hours of sleep. (She's not sure she could fall asleep, anyway.) There's hot water in the shower and she dries her hair afterwards, taking longer than usual but only half-caring. She's still not entirely convinced Jane's even here for her to find. It could be the wrong island, or even the wrong country. The FBI has been wrong before (and she has a scar to prove it).<p>

She puts the tracking device into her pocket before leaving, shutting the door to her room with a light slam and nodding at the maid in the hallway nearby. She has what looks like a handmade brochure from the nightstand in the room, though the English translation is poor and even the map on the back won't tell her where Jane lives.

She walks a short way through the streets, passing a tailor and a few food markets before coming to the post office building she's been looking for. There are two women having an animated conversation over the counter when she opens the door, though they stop abruptly the moment they see her.

"Excuse me." She's not going to even try to speak Spanish. "I'm…looking for someone."

"Who?" the woman behind the counter asks, voice accented but still easy to understand.

"He's an American. Patrick Jane?" Describing him seems impossible. "He's here sometimes sending letters, I think."

The two women at the counter exchange glances and begin a rapid-fire conversation with each other in Spanish, gesturing towards her without looking at her at all. She catches Jane's name a couple of times, but can't make out a single other word.

She needs to get out of here. She has to get out of here now and the door is heavier than she remembers and it slams behind her and she's halfway down the street and has to stop—leaning against the side of a building, shaking. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be looking for Jane. She should be in Canon River at her desk in the police department, sifting through paperwork and daydreaming about finding something in the mail tonight other than bills and clothing catalogs.

No one comes out of the post office to find her. She feels guilty for asking for help and then running away, but there's no way in hell she can go back in there and try again. It feels like her lungs are being crushed. She isn't supposed to be here.

* * *

><p>After about five minutes and four strange looks from passing townspeople, she starts walking again. She's sure it would be a bad idea to try to ask anyone else about Jane, so she follows the sound of crashing waves through several streets, past another few food markets and crowd of kids playing some sort of game.<p>

She's at the corner of Calle Segunda and Santo Tomás when she sees him—fifty paces ahead of her, walking unhurried in the direction of the ocean. He's wearing an untucked blue dress shirt and capri pants in a strange shade of pink, but it has to be him. She's sure of it.

She'd been almost expecting to find him in that post office sending a letter to her, and the fact that he's out here on the street instead makes her lungs feel like they're being crushed again. She closes the distance between them over the next few blocks, straightening her clothing and fighting to keep her heart beating in some semblance of a rhythm.

She walks alongside him for ten or fifteen steps, matching his pace exactly. He has to notice her. He has to look over at her so that she can see the surprise on his face. He has to smile and he has to say something—maybe something real or maybe something silly or glib but _something_.

He doesn't.

"Jane."

He glances at her for half a second before looking ahead again—not stopping, not even slowing down at all. (And she's scared he's lost his memory again and she's scared he hasn't.)

"_Jane,_" she says again. "Quit pretending like I'm not here."

"I realize you're there." Still walking, eyes still focused ahead. "Although you're really just my subconscious, so—"

He half-stumbles when she hits him in the shoulder, her hand clenched so tightly she can feel her fingernails digging into her palm.

"You _idiot._" The words almost stick in her mouth. "You'd_ better_ not be—"

"Lisbon?"

And he's quit walking now and he's looking at her (and she's checking his eyes and he's sober and thank god he's sober).

"You're not…"

She trails off when his fingers brush against her cheek. His eyes start to search her face with an almost terrifying focus, as though he's checking her against his memory to make sure she's changed just enough to be real. Both of his hands drift across her forehead, her ears, the sides of her face, the line of her jaw. The touch is so light it tickles (and she's scared he's going to kiss her and she's scared he isn't).

He's strangled someone to death with those hands.

She jolts when she thinks of it, and he pulls away sharply in response, eyes going wide and arms falling to his sides.

"Sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to scare you. It just made more sense that I was imagining you."

"Okay." She isn't sure what else to say.

"You found me?"

"No," she tells him. "The FBI did. Through the letters. They're here, but they sent me to talk to you."

His expression twists. "You're working for them?"

"They said they'd press charges against me if I didn't come with them to talk to you." Her voice comes out colder than she means it to.

"Talk to me about what?" he asks. "They can't arrest me here."

"They want you to work for them," she says. "In the U.S.—Texas, somewhere."

"Oh." He looks away. "I'm sorry they sent you all this way, then."

"I told them you wouldn't agree to it." She swallows. "They threatened to make things difficult for Annabeth, too."

"I see."

And she's going to be sick.

"That's all you have to say?" she snaps. "'I _see?_'"

"Lisbon, I…" He meets her gaze again. "Did you read the letters?"

"Yeah. I did."

"Okay."

"_Okay?_" She stares at him. "What the_ hell_ are you—?"

"I missed you," he interrupts. "If you read the letters then you know I missed you more than anything. And I'm sorry that I'm not saying what you want me to say, but I still can't believe you're really here."

And her anger dissolves.

"I'm here, Jane."

"Okay." His voice wavers.

"And I missed you too." She's not sure she's ever made more of an understatement.

He gives her a vague smile. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Okay." She feels the corners of her lips turn up a tiny bit.

"Could I—?"

"Yeah."

It seems to take a few thousand years to close the distance between them, and another century or two before she's secure in his arms, her face half-buried in his shoulder. She can feel his heart beating nearly as fast as hers, his hands shaking as they move across her back and through her hair. She's forgotten what it's like to be held. She's forgotten what it's like to show affection.

She feels a chill when he lets her go about a minute later, and has to stop herself from immediately hugging him again. She can't recognize or read his expression at all.

"Do you want to see the ocean?" he finally asks.

"Sure." Her voice comes out as a whisper. "Okay."


	3. Part III

A/N: NCIS made a 12B reference and it was fabulous. On an only slightly related note, here's the last part. This has a bit of an ambivalent ending, but it probably won't have an epilogue.

Thank you for the reviews. Standard disclaimer applies.

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><p>She stands at the tideline for a few minutes, waves rolling across the sand and sometimes touching the tips of her shoes before receding. She hasn't seen the ocean since she left California. She knows she could've easily driven to the coast or at least to Puget Sound from Canon River, but she never did. It would've been different—colder, unfamiliar.<p>

"I always kind of thought you were exaggerating," she finally says.

"Hmm?"

"In the letters," she explains. "I didn't think it could really look like this. I thought you just didn't want me to worry."

He doesn't reply, and she's scared she's said too much. (She's scared she hasn't said enough.) The back of his hand brushes against hers, but she thinks it's an accident—they're standing much closer together than she realized.

"I saw the post office," she blurts out. "When I was looking for you. I asked them if they'd seen you anywhere."

"What did they say?"

She can't tell him. "Nothing helpful."

"But you found me anyway," he says (and she can hear the smile in his voice, though she isn't looking at him).

"Yeah, I did." She needs to change the subject. "How did you get my address in Washington?"

"Very easily."

She looks at him. "You're not going to tell me."

He laughs. "That wouldn't be very much fun."

She tries to knock him off balance but can't bring herself to really go through with it, instead leaning a bit to the side so that their shoulders touch. He takes her hand in his without a word.

"Jane." It sounds more like a statement than the question she was intending it to be.

"Mmhm?"

She lifts his hand so that she can see it—as though in the pattern of veins she's going to be able to find some sort of proof that he's killed Red John, that everything is really over. It feels like an eternity ago that she was watching him make tea in the CBI break room. It feels like yesterday.

"You're alive," she finally says.

"I am."

She knows she shouldn't ask, but can't stop herself. "Did it help?"

"Yes."

It's a simpler answer than she's expecting, but she thinks he's telling the truth. She can't decide whether it bothers her or not that he doesn't feel guilty about murdering someone. She can't even decide if it _should _bother her.

"What are you going to do now?" she asks.

"Well, I was hoping to walk along this beach for a while with you, and then show you the rest of the town," he says. "But we seem to be stopped here for some reason."

She can't keep from smiling at that, and pulls him a few steps forward until they're walking along the tideline, hands still clasped together as though they've done this a hundred times before. They could be in California—if there were only a few more ships on the horizon.

"You never answered my question," she says after a minute or so. "What were you going to do?"

He's silent for half an eternity, and then—

"I was trying to find a way to see you again."

Her heart jolts a little. "You were?"

"I thought about sending you a plane ticket, but I wasn't sure you'd appreciate that."

She swallows. "You could've come to Washington."

"And risked you calling the FBI the moment you saw me?"

She stares at him, though he's still looking ahead. "You knew I wasn't going to do that, Jane."

"I hadn't heard from you in two years," he says, voice soft. "I didn't know if you were reading the letters, or if I'd hurt you too much for you to forgive me."

All of this could be a dream (though she knows it isn't).

"I forgave you," she whispers, squeezing his hand. "When I got that first letter, I forgave you."

She wishes it weren't true, that she'd been able to hold onto her anger a little longer, that she could tell him now how her life was hell in that first month after the CBI crumbled. She wishes he weren't so good at fixing everything with a few words. She wishes she hadn't missed him so goddamn much.

"What are you going to do now, Lisbon?" he asks, borrowing her words.

"I'm supposed to convince you to go work for the FBI." She wishes a second later that she hadn't brought it up.

"Ah. You can tell the FBI that my answer is no."

"I don't think they're gonna be happy with that," she tells him.

"They can't arrest me."

"No, no they can't." But they could make things difficult for her and Annabeth. "They'll probably want to talk to you before they leave, though."

"And you?"

She looks at him. "And me what?"

"Are you leaving with them?"

He can't possibly think that she isn't, and the fact that he's even asking sends another chill through her (though she tells herself it's the wind).

"I have to get back to Washington," she says.

They walk ten paces in silence, save the crashing of waves.

"You know," he starts softly. "You could stay here with me."

Her breath catches. "No, I couldn't."

"I know."

And she stops them right there, letting go of his hand to wrap her arms around him, tightening her grip as he returns the embrace and ocean water washes over their shoes. They're both shaking now. She can feel tears biting at her eyes and there are words heavy in her throat that she's not going to be able to say to him right now, or maybe ever. She came here expecting to find Jane from the CBI. She's found Jane from the letters instead.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into her hair. "I just don't want you to leave."

"It's okay." Her voice breaks on the word 'okay'.

After another moment he pulls away a bit, one hand on her shoulder and the other sliding down her arm to her fingertips. She hopes that she isn't crying, though she can't be sure.

"I have a plan." His voice is too uneven to sound anything like she's come to expect on that line.

"You do?"

"The FBI wants me to work for them," he starts. "And I will—on the condition that I work with you."

She falls back a step, breaking away from his hands. "What?"

"I'll tell them I won't work for them unless they make you a job offer."

"Jane, I _can't._" The ocean water freezes her feet. "I _have_ a job. In Canon River. And a house and a life, and I'm not going to just leave that."

"Why not?"

Why the hell is he doing this? Why the hell is he making her choose like this?

"Because I _can't,_" she chokes. "Because I'll agree to this and then you'll run away again, or get me fired, or get both of us killed. I—"

"So you haven't forgiven me?" he interrupts.

She can't respond.

"I thought that I would never see you again, Teresa," he continues, voice nearly a whisper. "I won't be running away anymore. You have to know by now that I would miss you too much to ever do that."

"Okay." She can't get herself to say anything else.

"You'll work with me?"

"No. Maybe." She hates herself. "Can we just…pretend I'm not here because of the FBI for a few hours?"

He reaches out and takes one of her hands again, running his thumb across her knuckles.

"We can."

* * *

><p>They drift down the beach for a while, the tide chasing them up the sand sometimes, her heart beginning to beat more steadily. She tells him about her house in Canon River—the flowers in the front yard with the names she always mispronounces and the mountains she can see in the distance out of almost every window. She tells him about the string of burglaries a few months ago that made half the town change their locks and buy new security systems. He listens. She pretends she's writing him letters, though she knows she can't capture images quite the way he can.<p>

They stop at an open-air bar at the top of the beach, ordering breakfast and sitting down at one of the tables. She hasn't eaten anything since a sandwich Agent Bradley let her buy at the airport last night, but she isn't as hungry as she thinks she should be.

"You still drink too much coffee, I see," Jane says.

"I haven't had _any_ today before now."

He grins. "My point still stands."

They walk back into town afterwards, wandering from street to street without clear direction as he points out places she recognizes from the letters. She steers them away from the post office and is relieved when he doesn't ask her why. His voice is light. He almost never lets go of her hand.

If he were like this all the time, the choice would be easy. If she trusted him not to run, if she trusted him not to lie to her under the guise of protecting her, she could make a decision in an instant. But there's no guarantee that the Jane she'd be working with in Texas would be the same Jane who wrote her the letters, who's holding her hand right now. He's gone from telling her how important she is to leaving her stranded in the middle of nowhere in under a minute.

But can she go back to Canon River? Can she go back to the house that's always a little too quiet and the police department where most days there are barely enough traffic violations to keep them in business? Can she go back and survive on a letter every few weeks like she did before?

"Lisbon?"

She turns her head sharply to look at him. "Sorry. What?"

He smiles. "This is where I live. Do you want tea?"

"Yeah." She tries to smile back. "Sure."

* * *

><p>She hovers in the middle of the room as he makes tea, knowing she should sit down but not seriously considering it. The décor is as sparse as she expected. She watches him take out teacups and a kettle, her heart starting to pound so heavily that it's painful, her lungs feeling crushed by her ribcage again. She wants to run like she did in the post office, take off out the door and fly—but her feet stick to the floor.<p>

"Jane."

He sets down the kettle the moment he looks at her, crossing the room in what feels like an instant and drawing her into his arms. She lets herself lean into him instead of pulling away.

"You're leaving." His voice is quiet, inches from her ear.

She swallows. "No."

"You'll work with me again?"

"I will," she tells him. "Don't screw it up, okay?"

And then she's shaking again, shuddering almost violently in his arms, crying without tears, struggling to breathe as though she's drowning. She hates herself for acting like this. She hates herself for being this vulnerable, but all of it is too much—the constant contact and the broken smiles and the words that are more honest than any she's ever heard from him but that still keep everything hidden. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to be happy in Canon River, or at least content. She was supposed to be able to call it home.

"It's going to be okay." His fingers lace through her hair. "I—"

"Don't promise," she chokes. "Please."

"Okay."

He pulls back a bit and she thinks at first that he's trying to see her face, but he rests his forehead against hers instead. She keeps her eyes shut and can feel his breath now across her skin.

"I missed you," she tells him again.

"I missed you too, Teresa." His voice is so soft she can barely hear it, though they're inches apart. "I wish I hadn't left."

"You shouldn't have," she whispers. "I know you had to, but you shouldn't have."

"I know."

The slightest movement and their lips meet. Her knees go weak even though she's been expecting this, even though they've been drifting closer and closer to crossing this line since the moment she found him this morning, since the moment he took her face in his hands to make sure that she was real. And it's gentle and it's slow and she's wanted this goddamn kiss for so long that breaking away is near impossible.

But she does.

"We _can't_." Her voice is alien. "We can't do this, Jane—not right now, we _can't_. If they won't let us work together again, and you have to stay here and I have to go back to—"

"_Teresa_," he interrupts. "It's okay. Everything is okay. I understand."

"And we have to talk about what happened with—"

"You're right," he says. "You're right and I'm sorry that I didn't—"

"I'm not mad at you." She hugs him again, resting her head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms back around her. "We just can't right now."

"Okay. I understand."

"I'm sorry." Her voice is muffled. She knows it would probably be better for her sanity to let go of him, but she won't.

"You don't need to be—"

"No," she interrupts. "Not for that."

"Then for what?"

She takes a breath. "That you're here. That we're both here."

His arms tighten around her. "It's going to get better, Teresa."

"Do you actually think that, or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

"Both."

She's scared she's going to kiss him again (and she's scared she isn't). "I should really call the FBI. Tell them you're ready to talk."

"Right now?"

"I don't like not knowing."

He lets go of her, taking a step back. "I _will_ convince them, you know."

"We don't really have the upper hand here, Jane."

"But we do," he tells her. "They could've sent one of their agents to talk to me, but they sent you instead."

"You think they want both of us?"

He gives her a soft smile. "I do."

* * *

><p>The FBI tells her to bring Jane to a conference room in the hotel, and she tells them to give her ten minutes. It's too short of a walk (and too small of an island) to really get lost, but she lets Jane take her on a slightly longer route. He holds her hand again. She almost wishes she'd let herself keep kissing him before, though she knows it would've caused more problems than it solved.<p>

The door to the conference room is shut when they arrive, and they both stop in front of it, motionless. It feels dangerous to stand there with their hands clasped together, but she can't get herself to let go yet.

"I have one of the letters," she tells him, trying to buy a few more seconds. "They gave it to me on the plane, but I never opened it."

"Mm, it's probably redundant now."

"Yeah. Probably." She doesn't tell him that she's saving it for if and when everything goes wrong. "You really think this is going to work?"

"Whatever happened to you trusting me, Lisbon?" he asks, grinning at her.

She manages a half-smile. "I think that's how we ended up here in the first place."

He laughs lightly, and then squeezes her hand before letting go. "Ready?"

She reaches for the door handle.


End file.
